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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661019">Of hearts and warmth and love letters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttros/pseuds/Buttros'>Buttros</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Grief, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:40:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttros/pseuds/Buttros</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was such a Sherlock thing to do, to try to understand John’s feelings by equating them to his experiences. Trying to be fair, in his own way. For his vulnerability to be viewed as a gift and not a weakness, for his tears to be cherished... John’d never felt this kind of affection. He wanted to show Sherlock the same respect.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Of hearts and warmth and love letters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>_*_</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was a ginger man by the name of Ed Shewan – not to be confused with the ginger musician Ed Sheeran – that had killed his dog and blamed it on his ex-wife. He ran the dog over, using his ex-wife's car, then fixed himself an alibi and everything. The ex-wife, a blond woman by the name of Taylor Mayden (her maiden name) came to Sherlock in need of help.  </p><p>They went through the motions, pretending they were Sherlock-and-John. Sherlock analysed everything quietly and inquired John’s opinion. John interviewed the witnesses and interested parties because he was better with people, while Sherlock lurked nearby, attentive. Sherlock deduced the husband’s blame and offered evidence. John said ‘amazing’ when it was due.  </p><p>‘‘You’re a psychopath, Ed. A fucking psychopath’’ Miss Mayden said, seething beside her lawyer. Ed was in front of her, across the table, beside his own lawyer. John and Sherlock had been asked to supervise and offer the evidences. Taylor hoped that a deal could be reached without involving the authorities, for which Ed’s lawyer was grateful. </p><p>‘‘You were always pathetic. You asked for a divorce to get my money, and then had to do monstrosities to see it through’’ </p><p>Ed could have said that most of the money was his. He could have said that he just wanted a shred of dignity. Ed said nothing. </p><p>‘‘You pretend to hate me. You pretend to hate my friends, my habits, my hobbies, my job’’ Taylor Mayden was an Instagram influencer with less than one hundred followers. ‘‘But this’’ she pointed at herself, ‘‘this is what you like’’ </p><p>Sherlock hadn’t been moving, before, but he froze, very obviously, at her words. John felt Sherlock’s eyes scanning his face for a reaction. John looked up at him, and smiled. It must have been a horrible sight, because Sherlock frowned.  </p><p>John left the room. </p><p>The metaphor was quite obvious. It went beyond abusive spouses and unbreakable marriages. Sherlock made the connection to him and his own horrible life, but John finds that to be very unfair to Ed Shewan, the dog slayer.  </p><p>Ed Shewan had sacrificed his dog for his freedom. John Watson had sacrificed his baby. </p><p>‘‘What are you thinking?’’ Sherlock said, appearing beside him, a cigarette already lit between his fingers.  </p><p>John watched him pout around the filter, waiting until he released the smoke before taking the cigarette and taking a drag himself. He hated it, but this is what he did. If he looked at Sherlock’s hair, he pretended there was something there. If he looked at Sherlock’s neck, he pretended to care where his scarf had gone. If he looked at Sherlock’s lips, he pretended he wanted the cigarette between them. </p><p>Pretend and pretend. It was second nature, at this point. Five years' worth of it. Soon he would get his bachelors and move into postgrad. John Watson, PhD in pretending he didn’t want to fuck Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>The smoke got caught in John’s throat, because of course if did. John coughed and soon he was overcome in hysterics.  </p><p>‘‘John?’’ Sherlock sounded scared. John felt sorry for him, but he also couldn’t stop laughing. </p><p>‘‘Sorry’’ He tried to say. It came out high pitched and breathy. He bent over, his laughter starting to cramp his stomach. ‘‘I’m the most-’’ John breathed, ‘‘Pathetic human being’’ </p><p>John inhaled, deeply, and looked at Sherlock’s worried expression before walking away from Ed Shewan’s (soon to be Taylor Mayden’s) house. He hoped he was going in the direction of Baker Street.  </p><p>‘‘John’’ Sherlock called after him, not even having to run to catch up. Those damn legs. John hated them. They would look so pretty around John’s waist. Or over his shoulders.  </p><p>‘‘Sherlock’’ John mocked, smiling. He realised the cigarette was still in his hand and put it out on a wall, before throwing it in the garbage. Save the planet, and all that. ‘‘Did you know I went vegan?’’ </p><p>John heard Sherlock nearly trip. There was a long pause before he said, ‘‘You- What?’’ </p><p>‘‘I did... My mom did this thing, whenever she wanted something really badly. She would promise the universe she would cut out a habit from her life for a determined amount of time, and asked for something in return. I always thought it was kind of silly, but here I am. Vegan for three years. I didn’t eat a single thing at the weeding. Only Mrs Hudson noticed’’ </p><p>Sherlock was already beside him at this point, trying to keep his eyes fixed on John despite the obstacles in the street. ‘‘What did you ask the universe?’’ </p><p>‘‘Of course, I feel better, now. Energised. It also makes me feel more connected with the Earth, if that makes sense’’ </p><p>‘‘John’’ </p><p>‘‘There is the added benefit of cheaper groceries, too. I don’t mind the vegan beefs or vegan snacks, you know? Just give me some broccoli’’ </p><p>‘‘John’’ </p><p>‘‘Stopped drinking too. I’m already too much like my father’’ </p><p>‘‘<em>John</em>’’ Sherlock grabbed John’s arm, stopping him in the middle of the sidewalk. He forced John’s eyes to meet his by placing his gloved hands on John’s cheeks, holding him still.  </p><p>This up close, John could see the detective shivering, ‘‘Are you cold?’’ he said, and raised a hand to stroke Sherlock’s arm.  </p><p>Sherlock widened his eyes, but shook his head, ‘‘No’’ he sighed. There was a pause, a soft inhale, and ‘‘I’m sorry I said that you liked her because she was dangerous. I’m sorry for implying that it was you fault. I didn’t mean it. I had to give her ammunition otherwise she-’’ </p><p>‘‘I know’’ John whispered. And he let himself stop pretending for a second, so he could look at Sherlock’s lips like he wanted to kiss him. He could look at his hair like he wanted to tug on it. At that neck like he wanted to bite it. ‘‘I know, beautiful’’  </p><p>Sherlock gasped. There was trepidation on that beautiful face, his eyes impossibly wide before he blinked, as if trying to process what he was seeing. Emotions passed through him and John couldn’t catch up. John felt embarrassment settle cold in the pit of his stomach. It was so odd. With Sherlock he felt everything at once, the good and the bad. Without Sherlock he was numb. </p><p>‘‘I’m sorry’’ he said, looking down, disentangling himself from Sherlock’s grip. He took a few steps back, clearing his throat, ‘‘You okay to get back home on your own?’’ </p><p>He didn’t wait for a reply. John turned around and continued walking. He wanted to run, but he thought it would look ridiculous. It would feel pathetic. But he already was pathetic, so what was the point of pretending he wasn’t. </p><p>‘‘Jesus Christ’’ John muttered to himself, ‘‘Throw a pity party, while you’re at it’’ </p><p>He half expected Sherlock to follow him, but the detective didn’t. I was almost worse that he didn’t. Now John would have time to think. </p><p>Premise: Marry Watson was a manipulative person. John asked her to marry him because she forced him to. He adjusted every last aspect of his life to accommodate her. She didn’t like having sex with him, only when she did, which was two months before the wedding.  </p><p>Fact number one (1): Marry Watson got pregnant within the month of April.  </p><p>Fact number two (2): In the few times that they were intimate, John didn’t reach orgasm.  </p><p>Fact number three (3): John Watson had a vasectomy when he was 18 years old. Not a single human soul (besides the doctor) knows this, since he did it completely off the books. His roommate from college was a resident. He agreed to do it no questions asked. If he had asked, John would have made up some bullshit petty reason, like not wanting to give his father the satisfaction of grandchildren. The truth is that John felt a violence in himself that scared him. He saw his Robert Watson in the mirror more than he saw himself. </p><p>Conclusion: The baby wasn’t John’s.  </p><p>It didn’t make it easier. No games of logic could erase that he went to Mycroft for help. That he arranged to get his wife arrested because he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t try to murder Sherlock again. He could pretend not to want Sherlock, but he couldn’t pretend to forgive Mary. He couldn’t pretend to love her.  </p><p>They’d come for her in the middle of the night.  </p><p>The thing with villains, is that is not only the law that they fear. The boogie monster has many faces.  </p><p>Mycroft’s men had her for a bit. And then they didn’t. Mycroft came two days later to inform John that her body had been found by the Tames.  </p><p>John bent over to retch inside a dumpster. He hadn’t eaten today, so nothing came out. Small blessings.  </p><p>‘‘I’m sorry, baby girl’’ He whispered. It was too early to tell, but he knew it in his heart that it was a girl. He killed a baby girl before she could even experience the world.  </p><p>The smell coming from the dumpster made him retch some more. He had half a heart to jump inside and be done with it. </p><p>‘‘John’’  </p><p>John felt rather then heard Sherlock beside him. Cold fingers graced his neck, brushing against the hairs at his nape. John’s stomach settled down. </p><p>‘‘Come home with me’’  </p><p>John gripped the dumpster, eyes already shut so tightly that his head was starting to hurt. He counted the seconds, reaching 57 before Sherlock exhaled loudly. </p><p>‘‘Please’’ Sherlock sounded distraught, now. He came behind John to caress his hands, pleading with then. Pleading with him. He bent over and touched his cold nose to John’s neck, ‘‘Please come home with me’’ </p><p>John sighed. Then he swallowed. Then he inhaled deeply, keeping that retched smell trapped in his lungs, as if he were taking the dumpster with him. He didn’t look at Sherlock, but he let himself be guided. </p><p>_*_ </p><p>Baker Street was just as he remembered. Warm and cosy. His home, which he only realised he missed like a limb when the ache in his chest became unbearable. </p><p>He didn’t live there anymore, of course. He lived in the house where he should have raised a little girl. He dusted his little girl’s room twice a week.  </p><p>It felt impossible, now, to hold it in. He only noticed the tears when Sherlock wiped them away, a scared expression on his face. He’d never seen John like this. He’d never seen John cry. ‘‘John, please’’ he whispered, ‘‘Please’’. And he pulled John in a hug. </p><p>John’s legs failed him, but Sherlock was right there with him, guiding them both to the floor so he could pull John half on his lap. John’s hands were adherent to Sherlock’s coat, his face buried in the detective’s scarf, secured within Sherlock’s arms. No matter how much John’s mind tried to describe what they were doing, he couldn’t ignore the horrible sobs coming from his mouth, the tears soaking his face. He wanted to be done, he wanted to go back to being numb, but he couldn’t.  </p><p>He’d killed his little girl. </p><p>‘‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry....’’ Sherlock was whispering, in a loop. He started to rock John lightly, trying to sooth him. Or maybe trying to sooth himself.  </p><p>John felt like it went on for ages. Eventually Sherlock subsided, content to only stroke John’s hair and press his lips on his forehead, over and over again. John’s sobbing became sniffing. And then it became nothing. They held each other like they were frightened a false move would make the other pull away. John’s growling stomach was what forced them apart.  </p><p>‘‘Can I make you something?’’ Sherlock whispered, then he cleared his throat, but he didn’t let go of John. </p><p>‘‘I’ll help you’’ John didn’t let go either. </p><p>There was a beat, and then Sherlock brushed his lips against John’s forehead before disentangling himself, He helped John up.  </p><p>The doctor felt dizzy, ‘‘Christ, I’m dehydrated’’ he laughed, looking at the top button of Sherlock’s shirt.  </p><p>Sherlock pulled him to the kitchen by his hand, not saying a word. They both froze when they saw that the table was set, and there was a steaming lasagne in the middle of it.  </p><p>John had actually felt embarrassed, ‘‘Did you hear Mrs Hudson coming up?’’ </p><p>Sherlock was still looking at the table. He shook his head. He guided John to his chair, never letting go of his hand, then moved around the kitchen to get water for both of them.  </p><p>John wasn’t really hungry, but he forced himself to eat as much as he could. Sherlock seemed to be in a similar predicament. He looked cute as he frowned at the food, as if he were asking it what to do with his crying best friend. A laugh escaped John before he could stifle it.  </p><p>Sherlock raised his eyes, frightened, ‘‘What?’’  </p><p>John shook his head, ‘‘Nothing, it’s just...’’ He bit his lip, inhaling deeply for courage, ‘‘I’m sorry I put you through that’’ </p><p>Sherlock looked confused. Then he looked offended, ‘‘I’m your friend’’ </p><p>John shrugged, ‘‘Well, yeah. But it’s tough do deal with, anyway’’ </p><p>Sherlock shook his head, frowning and looking down, as if trying to choose his words carefully. He finally said, ‘‘Nothing about you is tough to deal with, John’’ </p><p>That ache in John’s chest returned. It’s like he couldn’t help but mourn <em>something</em>. Like his existence was defined by it. He mourned his mother, then his childhood, then his sister’s childhood, then his mates at the army, then Sherlock, then baby girl, and now Sherlock again.  </p><p>John sighed, ‘‘I want to stop’’ </p><p>‘‘Stop what?’’ </p><p>‘‘I want to stop mourning’’ </p><p>Sherlock’s eyes softened with compassion. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen, ‘‘It’s been a month since your wife died, John. It’s okay to need more than a weekend to get better’’ </p><p>John shook his head, ‘‘I’m not mourning <em>her</em>. I’m-’’ the tears returned. He couldn’t even say it.  </p><p>‘‘John’’ Sherlock got up from his chair, moving to kneel beside John. He gazed up at his friend, and he looked to be struggling with what he wanted to say, ‘‘You were caught in an impossible situation. You cared for a woman who had a dark past, and it caught up with her. She should be held accountable for things. She made choices in her present that put everyone around her at risk. She used a baby as currency’’ </p><p>‘‘But-’’ John inhaled deeply, trying to control his trembling chin, ‘‘But I killed my baby’’ John sobbed. </p><p>Sherlock frowned, his eyes glistening, ‘‘No, you didn’t. Mary’s enemies did. And they would have done so had you delivered her to Mycroft or not. If they found her there, they would have found her in your house’’ </p><p>John nodded. He knew that, rationally. But it was comforting to hear it from someone else. He brought his hand to trace Sherlock’s cheekbone, and the detective sighed, closing his eyes. </p><p>‘‘Do you think she’ll forgive me?’’ John whispered, afraid of the answer. </p><p>At tear fell from Sherlock’s eye. ‘‘Of course, she will’’ He whispered back, he opened his eyes briefly, then closed them again, ‘‘She already loved her daddy’’ </p><p>John sighed, the weight on his shoulders softening greatly, all thanks to the beautiful man who was kneeling beside him. He bent down to kiss the tip of Sherlock’s nose, trying to show how grateful he was.  </p><p>Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He bit his lip, looking at John’s face intently. He swallowed a few times, but it was only when his breathing sped up that John became concerned. </p><p>‘‘What’s wrong, love?’’  </p><p>Sherlock seemed to bask under the endearment, but only a little. ‘‘I need to show you something’’ </p><p>John smiled, ‘‘Okay’’ </p><p>‘‘But you need to promise me that you won’t stop being my friend. That you will still trust me’’ </p><p>Now John raised his eyebrows, ‘‘Sherlock, what-’’ </p><p>‘‘Promise’’ Sherlock begged. He was begging, John realized, on his knees, ‘‘Please, promise me’’ </p><p>It’s not like Sherlock could do anything that was unforgivable to John, anyway. He traced his fingertips on Sherlock’s face. He hoped this newfound freedom to touch each other wasn’t just a product of his grief, stuck within this time bubble. He liked touching Sherlock, and it seemed that Sherlock liked to be touched. He smiled, ‘‘Okay’’ </p><p>Sherlock’s face turned hopeful, ‘‘Okay?’’ </p><p>‘‘Yes’’ John laughed, feeling the tension pop like a balloon, ‘‘Show me this thing because I’m getting curious, now’’ </p><p>‘‘Right’’ Sherlock nodded, blinking a bit, lost in thought. ‘‘Right!’’. And he got up and ran to his room.  </p><p>John just watched him go, ‘‘Should I... Should I follow you?’’  </p><p>‘‘No’’ Sherlock yelled, ‘‘I’ll bring it to you’’ </p><p>John nodded, even though Sherlock couldn’t see him. He tried to busy himself with the dishes because his hands were starting to shake a little. Had he always felt his emotions like this? Was he always this... sensitive? His father would have a field day punching it out of him. </p><p>Sherlock returned quietly. So quietly that John only heard him when he was behind him, breathing down his neck. John dried his hands and turned to look at him, only for his eyes to fall on a neat stack of envelops.  </p><p>‘‘You’ve trusted me with your vulnerability today’' Sherlock said, his voice assured as if he’d been thinking incessantly about how he wanted to fraise it, ‘‘So I want to give you some of mine’’ </p><p>John’s heart softened. His whole body did, in fact. It was such a Sherlock thing to do, to try to understand John’s feelings by equating them to his experiences. Trying to be fair, in his own way. John wanted to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, but the words got stuck in his throat. For his vulnerability to be viewed as a gift and not a weakness, for his tears to be cherished. He’d never felt this kind of affection. He wanted to show Sherlock the same respect. </p><p>John moved to take the envelops, but Sherlock took a step back, ‘‘Remember what you promised’’ He looked frightened again.  </p><p>John nodded, taking a deep breath, and smiled. He smiled his real smile, not his pretend one. He let Sherlock see it, again. He vouched to always let Sherlock see it, from now own. He took the envelops, noting that they had dates in the back, and were in order from the oldest to the newest.  </p><p>John settled on the chair and began reading. </p><p>_*_ </p><p>
  <em>Dear John, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It started the day we met.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You, John Watson, entered the lab in Bart’s Hospital with a psychosomatic limp and something heavy falling over your shoulders. Your face had been inexpressive as if the muscles were tired of having to convey only disagreeable emotions. I wondered if your sadness was an unfortunate spoil of war, or if it was a chronic condition. I remember thinking that you must have been 35, though your demeanour made you look older. Experienced. Mature.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I tried to dazzle you. I tried to rattle you, impress you. I wanted to know what your voice sounded like when you were awed or interested, but I also wanted to hear it when you were arrogant, sure of yourself. I wanted you to challenge me, to tell me I was wrong - when all I normally thrive off of is being right.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I got worse a day later, when you called me ‘amazing’ at the back of a cab whose owner had just stopped at a Burger King and was reeking of onion rings and cheap cheddar. How unfortunate that this godforsaken capitalist brand and the smell of grease would make me blush indefinitely.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s been a month since you’ve moved in, John. I’ve known you for a month. How can that be, when it feels like years? You are writing up our last case – the Blind Banker, you said you will call it – in your chair, and just asked me what I’m ‘scribbling with such intensity’. I told you it was an experiment, and it is, in a way.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m trying to see if writing it down will make it – this feeling, this constant pressure on my chest - less, because nothing has been effective so far. I’ve tried focusing on what society would call your ‘flaws’, be that was to no avail. I feel as if you are what and who you are, every bit of you providing a melody that adds up to the beautiful concerto that is John Watson.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s disconcerting, John. I wish I could play you. Wish I could learn every note by heart and never hear or perform anything else. I want to kill you when you are sweet to me. When your smile is patient as if you know that I can’t focus on the things that people normally focus on, and it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m enough. I want to kill you when you are grumpy, too. When you scream at the chip and pin machine because I’ve made you spend 500 pounds on cabs in less than two weeks. I want to kill you when you are angry with me – because it’s never about anything serious. Never about my flaws. You get angry with me because of mould colonies and ants in your tea, and not because I’m unfeeling, or a sociopath. I don’t think you’d consider these my flaws. I don’t even think you consider them true. And that makes me want to kill you even more. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want to kill you, John. I want to burry myself in your chest and die too. I imagine us in the earth like that, being feasted on by insects, becoming grass together. I wonder if this would bother you, that you’ve made me look forward to decomposition. I wonder if you’d want to die with me, too.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want you to know that I hate this, and you. I truly, wholeheartedly hate you. And I want to kill you. And I hate that I don’t really want to kill you, at all.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unfortunately, yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock Holmes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>_*_ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dear John,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I never delivered my first letter to you. I remember its contents vagally, but I think I’ll die of embarrassment if I attempt to ready it again, so I won’t. I won’t ever give it to you, either. Neither will I probably give you this one, but if feel like what I have to say must be said.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’ve just lied, and said that Irene Adler is alive and well. Well, you didn’t lie, but you think you did. You lied to spare my feelings. I hope you can hear the disgust through the letter, John. I hope you realize how little I respect you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The truth is, I’ve fallen out of it. Those feelings, from the last letter, I don’t have them anymore. The weight in chest is nothing. I wouldn’t mind it if you died. I really fucking wouldn’t.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You are spineless. A coward, really. I saw how you changed girlfriends like one might change clothes, because they bored you, but you were constantly aroused. That’s all these women were to you, really. A place for you to store your cum.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I saw your contempt for Irene Adler. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I felt your eyes roaming my body, wanting it. I saw how you wanted me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And yet you did nothing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You do nothing. You lie to spare my feeling as if that’s what I want, when all I need is for you to fuck me like you’re trying to break me. Like you are trying to hurt me. I need you to fuck me until I cry, John Watson.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps you are worried of doing it without having feelings for me. Which would just make me feel sorry for you and your hypocrisy. It’s not as if you fucked any of those women with these standards. Perhaps you are worried with my feelings for you, which is just laughable. I hate you. I fucking hate you. I hate you, John Watson. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wish you would fuck me, but I hate you. I don’t want you to even let me cum, either. I want you to use me when you need me so you'll never have to use any of those women whose names you probably can’t even remember. I’d let you do it raw. I’d let you spank me and bruise me. I’d enjoy it.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But you are a coward, so you won’t. You are nothing. You are pathetic. And I hate you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want you to know that no human being has ever hated you like I hate you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock Holmes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>_*_ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dear John, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is the third letter that I’m trying to write here, while I’m away. That’s what I’m calling it: my time away. Forced vacation into Moriaty’s twisted mind. A look into what I could have done and become without a John Watson. The first letter got wet – I had to jump on a river and wait until they stopped chasing me. It was so cold I thought it would kill me before I had the chance to see you again. The second I lost when I got caught, three days after that. They stripped me of everything I owned. I had to escape completely naked. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ve decided that I hate the cold. I had mixed feelings before, but now I hate it. I don’t fantasize about decomposition or you fucking me anymore, John. I fantasize about your warmth. You wouldn’t even have to hold me. I miss being warm so much, but no amount of clothes gives me any comfort. I might have swallowed a bit of the river. It’s in my chest, freezing me from the inside out. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want to die warm, John. Will you help me?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s almost over. A few more months, and then I can be warm again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I miss you. You stole all of my warmth. Nothing but a thief, that John Watson. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock Holmes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>_*_ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dear John,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re getting married today.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t know what I should be feeling. I wish I hated you, but I don’t. I can’t hate you for wanting to be happy. I wish I felt nothing, but I can’t accomplish that either. I still would very much like to die with you. I still would like you to fuck me. I wanted you to do it when we were both out of our minds drunk, that way it would have been fine. But you didn’t, because you don’t want to fuck me anymore. Maybe you never did. Maybe I’m the pathetic one. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I still shiver at night, John. I’m still cold. The river hasn’t left me, and you haven’t given it back. My warmth. I need it, John.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m so cold. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I want you to be happy, even if it means that I'll be cold. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock Holmes. </em>
</p><p>_*_ </p><p>‘‘Sherlock’’ it was barely a word. John’s heart was beating fast, his breathing was shallow, and now he couldn’t make words of sentences anymore. Sherlock wasn’t in the kitchen. John didn’t see where he went, ‘‘Sherlock?’’ </p><p>‘‘I’m- I’m in my room’’ Sherlock’s voice was quiet, like he didn’t want to be found. Or he was afraid to be. John didn’t care either way, he had a mission. He took his time to fold each letter carefully, reverently, keeping them away from anything wet or dangerous on the table before marching to Sherlock’s room. </p><p>Said detective was lying on his bed, bellow his covers. Only his face was visible and it was the most frightened John had ever seen it. John just took a moment to look at him.  </p><p>Sherlock cleared his throat, ‘‘Was that... was that okay?’’ </p><p>John’s heart broke and mended back together again, just from remembering Sherlock’s words. He imagined the rest of his life with Sherlock would be just like this: heart-breaking, but only because it’s so beautiful.  </p><p>‘‘It was more than okay’’ John whispered, taking a few steps closer to the bed.  </p><p>Sherlock searched John’s face for any sign of lying, and he must have not been very convinced, because he buried himself even further down the bed.  </p><p>‘‘Are you warm, love?’’  </p><p>Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes glistened, and he shook his head.  </p><p>‘‘Can I warm you up? Will you let me?’’ John moved closer still, and now his knees had hit the mattress,  </p><p>Sherlock nodded just as a tear escaped him, and John wasted no time getting bellow those covers, lying on top of Sherlock and folding around his body, pressing his lips to that bare throat, moving them up to Sherlock’s ear just to lick at it.  </p><p>Sherlock sighed, wiggling his legs to hook them over John’s, his arms following suit. Then he giggled when John’s tongue became too insistent. </p><p>‘‘Tickles’’ He whispered, complaining, turning his head to stop him, but John just started to lick his face instead. ‘‘Ugh, you’re like a dog’’ </p><p>John laughed, licking a wide stripe from Sherlock’s chin to his hair line, making Sherlock grunt in protest. He raised his head to regard Sherlock with a smile, which turned sad for a minute. ‘‘I’ve had this ache in my chest for so long. I’m only now realising that you had my heart all this time’’ </p><p>Sherlock face softened, and he brought his hand up to trace the lines on John’s face, ‘‘You have my warmth and I have your heart’’ </p><p>John’s expression turned serious, ‘‘I don’t know how to give it back’’ </p><p>Sherlock bit his lip, ‘‘I don’t know how to give your heart back, either’’ </p><p>John’s laugh was more an exhale, his smile turning mischievous, ‘‘I think we’ll just have to be touching each other all the time to be whole, then’’ he shook his head, ‘‘What a bummer’’ </p><p>Sherlock nodded, ‘‘Super inconvenient’’ </p><p>John hummed, diving forward to brush his lips against Sherlock’s, ‘‘Where is my heart, you little thief?’’ He pressed their mouths together more strongly, ‘‘Is it here?’’ and he licked inside of it, making the kiss as skilful as he could manage. </p><p>Given Sherlock’s dazzled expression when he pulled back, he managed just fine. Sherlock gathered his bearings and tried to pull John down again, but John didn’t let him. He kissed Sherlock’s throat just as skilfully.  </p><p>‘‘Is it here?’’ he whispered, inspecting the area thoroughly. Every patch of skin that was revealed from a button that he opened from Sherlock’s shirt was rewarded with a kiss. He licked at Sherlock’s nipples like they tasted like honey. Which, either John had lost his mind with lust or they actually did.  </p><p>John hummed, biting at those nubs until Sherlock moaned loudly. ‘‘Maybe its beside the usual culprit’’ he felt Sherlock’s heart through his lips. Its rhythm was erratic, which almost made the doctor in him worried.  </p><p>His hands moved to Sherlock’s trousers, opening the button and the zipper in swift movements, ‘‘This okay?’’ he whispered, and forced his hands to still. </p><p>Sherlock looked amazing. Beautiful. Perfect. Lustful. Aroused, In love. Heart-breaking. He nodded, ‘‘More than okay, John’’ and his voice was a whisper, but it was certain. He raised his hips so John could pull his trousers down, and John took the opportunity to remove the detective’s pants, as well.  </p><p>Sherlock lay, naked. Eatable. He was so beautiful that it physically hurt John to look at him. ‘‘You’re breaking my heart’’ he said, which was true, but in a good way. In the best way. </p><p>‘‘No, I’m not. I’m keeping it safe and sound’’ Sherlock said, and raised his hips again, taunting John. ‘‘Go look for it’’ </p><p>John growled – he literally growled – and bent down to lick a wide strip along Sherlock’s cock. It tasted like honey too. It was long and pink and beautiful and it tasted like honey. John had officially lost his mind. But it was okay, because by the sounds of it, Sherlock was right there with him in the land of the crazy. </p><p>He raised Sherlock’s legs, because he had a feeling that if he licked at his hole it would make Sherlock beg for him. </p><p>He wasn’t wrong. </p><p>‘‘Jesus... fucking God, John. Fuck I- It's so good. It’s so fucking good. Please. Please. Please’’ And once he started, he couldn’t stop. It turned into a prayer, and John was his deity. </p><p>John licked at it broadly, purposefully, mindfully. He pressed Sherlock’s legs to his chest and pushed his tongue inside of him, because the though alone was making him shiver in pleasure.  </p><p>Sherlock screamed. </p><p>John moaned around and fucked him with his tongue until he couldn’t get enough. Until his jaw started to ache. ‘‘You taste like honey’’ he said, when he moved up to take a breath, making his fingers do all the work. </p><p>Sherlock had the presence of mind to laugh at him. Which just wouldn’t do. </p><p>John turned him around matter-of-factly, putting him in all fours, and Sherlock yelped in surprise. John’s tongue resumed its ministrations.  </p><p>‘‘God’’ Sherlock moaned. And the rest of his words were just garbled syllables. He started to rock back against John’s face, fucking himself on John’s tongue. He arched his back, resting his weight on his face so he could bring both hands back to spread his cheeks apart.  </p><p>John had to move back to see him. ‘‘Jesus Christ’’ he said, and it was actually an invocation, because he didn’t think he would survive this sight. ‘‘Jesus Christ, Sherlock’’ </p><p>Sherlock moaned, and John was half convinced that it was partially an act just to rile John up. </p><p>His suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock whimpered, ‘‘Will you fuck me, John?’’ He turned his head to look at him, his hair falling on his face, ‘‘Will you fuck me raw, just like I wanted you too?’’ </p><p>John wouldn’t (ever), because he would never hurt Sherlock like this, but he was impossibly aroused from the idea of it. He got up from the bed and started to remove his clothes, ‘‘You. Are. <em>Filthy</em>’’ </p><p>‘‘Yes’’ Sherlock moaned, letting go of his cheeks to raise his chest, looking at John more fully. He ate up every inch that was revealed to him, actually swallowing and biting his lip when he focused on John’s cock. ‘‘It’s bigger than I imagined’’ he frowned, as if disappointed in his own inability to deduce the exact length of John Watson’s penis.  </p><p>John laughed, glad that Sherlock’s mannerisms translated into the bed, as well. ‘‘You look like you want to taste it’’ </p><p>Sherlock’s face turned eager, ‘‘I do’’, he turned around and walked over to John in all-fours.  </p><p>This was going to be over embarrassingly fast.  </p><p>He held Sherlock by the hair with one hand and his prick with the other, just grazing it around Sherlock’s lips, which he opened and closed, trying to kiss it, to suck it inside.  </p><p>‘‘My God, Sherlock’’ John moaned. And he pushed himself inside that beautiful mouth, just a little. </p><p>Sherlock pushed his head back, ‘‘More, John’’ he licked around the head, ‘‘Want to get you all wet so you can fuck me’’  </p><p>John groaned loudly, and his hips moved on their own accord. Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and relaxed his jaw, and that sight alone threatened to make John in, ‘‘I’m coming, baby’’ </p><p>Sherlock stopped immediately, getting out of John’s grip so he could resume his position, spreading himself for John’s perusal. ‘‘Inside me, John’’ </p><p>John inhaled deeply, trying to control his erratic heart, ‘‘I won’t do it raw, baby’’ his voice was soft, despite everything. </p><p>‘‘Please’’ Sherlock raised his head, his eyes genuine, ‘‘Just the tip, please’’ </p><p>And Jesus fucking Christ if John didn’t almost bite his fist to keep from coming. He squeezed his dick at the base and bent down to lick at Sherlock’s hole, getting it wet and loose and ready.  </p><p>‘‘John, John, John...’’ He was rocking again, undulating his hips against John’s face, and suddenly John couldn’t take it anymore. He reached one arm around to pump Sherlock’s cock fast, while his other jerked his own cock, putting it right against where Sherlock was open and glistening.  </p><p>John pushed in a little, surprised at how easy his precum made it, and Sherlock yelled, jerking back to fuck himself on John’s cock just as he came with a shout. </p><p>With a quarter of his cock up Sherlock’s arse, John followed, grunting and moaning and maybe even crying a little, he wasn’t sure.  </p><p>Next thing he knew, he was lying beside Sherlock, who was on his front, looking at John with nothing but devotion. </p><p>John smiled at him, before he jerked himself upward, caressing Sherlock’s arse cheek, ‘‘Did I hurt you, baby?’’ </p><p>Sherlock grinned, shaking his head, and he pulled John down again so he could rest his head on his doctor’s chest. John wasn't convinced, but he let it slide. It was clear Sherlock liked a little pain. John made a mental note to keep lub in every part of the house. </p><p>John looked at the ceiling as his hands made patterns on Sherlock’s skin, his mind blissfully blank.  </p><p>‘‘That was the best sex of my life’’ </p><p>Sherlock laughed, a breathy exhale, and kissed John’s chest, ‘‘I feel the same’’ </p><p>John tugged on his hair a little, ‘‘You are so naughty’’, but his voice didn’t sound reprehensive. It sounded awed.  </p><p>Sherlock raised his head and balanced it on his chin against John’s chest, ‘‘You saying you don’t like it?’’ he smirked, one eyebrow raised, but there was a flicker of insecurity there. </p><p>‘‘I fucking love it’’ John laughed. Shaking his head, ‘‘Always wondered how I would die. Who would have thought it would be from Sherlock Holmes talking dirty to me’’ </p><p>Sherlock grinned, his smiled taking over his whole face, and he bent down again to lie against John. After a beat, he said "What did you ask the universe, John?" </p><p>John put a hand behind his head to raise it a little, "Three years ago?"</p><p>Sherlock nodded against John's chest.</p><p>John tugged on his curls, "For you to be alive"</p><p>Sherlock looked at John again, but his smile wasn't surprised. It was more apologetic, sweet. Filled with compassion. It was answer enough. He lied on John's chest again.</p><p>Their breathing synchronised, equated. Their heartbeats becoming one harmonious rhythm, and just as John was about to go under, he heard Sherlock’s soft voice. </p><p>‘‘You make me warm, John’’ </p><p>John smiled. </p><p>And he would never let Sherlock be cold ever again. Just as he knew that, if he ever fell apart, Sherlock would be right there to offer him his heart.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>_*_</p><p>Kudos and comments are cherished ♥️ Thank you for reading and I hope you like it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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